A/N: I've been trying to publish this chapter for a few days, but could not do so from my desktop. I'm using the app to publish, so, fingers crossed all goes well. If anyone knows how to publish for desktop, let me know. I've never had a problem in the past. Also, some formatting may have been lost because I used the app.
Olivia parked her car in the spot furthest from the front door of the church. For the past thirty minutes she has been inhaling and exhaling deeply, desperately trying to calm the flutter of nerves in her stomach. It's Thursday. She has been in Boston four days and has exhausted all plausible excuses for not visiting Reverend Norcross. Letting the week expire without visiting him is socially unacceptable. She glances at the clock on the dashboard one more time, shakes her hands vigorously, then steps out of the car.
XXX
"Olivia, my goodness! It's a pleasure to see you! It's been much too long. Much too long."
"It's good to see you, too, Reverend Norcross. It has been a while," she says, accepting his bearlike hug. His unbridled exuberance only makes her feel more guilty for delaying the visit.
"Have a seat. Have a seat," the reverend says, gesturing to the chairs in front of the huge oak desk with cherubs, angels, and saints carved in relief. "Can I offer you something to drink: coffee, tea, pop, water?"
"No. Nothing. Thank you," she says, watching the man settle in the oversized leather chair behind the desk.
Reverend Norcross looks much the same as he did the last time she saw him. His round, mocha-colored face is smooth and wrinkle-free. His waistline is a little broader, perhaps from eating too many dinners the ladies prepare in the kitchen downstairs in the basement. He still has more pepper than salt in his hair, although it is starting to thin a little at the crown.
"Look at you. Lovely as ever. A successful historian and bestselling author to boot. I've been following your career. Elias would be so proud of you." The corner of Olivia's mouth twitches slightly. "I must admit, I was a little surprised when you called a few months ago. I haven't seen or heard from you since your father's funeral. How long has Elias been gone now?" looking upward trying to remember the year he delivered the eulogy for his friend.
"Seven years," she says. "I'm sorry. I should have reached out to you sooner. It's just …"
"No worries. I'm glad to see that you're doing well. Your father would want to know that. Elias Pope was a great man. A powerful preacher and a staunch advocate for our people. That man dragged you around with him everywhere he went – up and down the East Coast – helping churches to organize … leading marches to protect our civil rights.
"You were his little protégé. My wife and I thought you were the cutest thing standing up in the pulpit preaching the Lord's word with such vigor. I expected you to follow in your father's footsteps — become the lead pastor of Zion Baptist after his death."
"That was my father's expectation," she says in a flat tone.
Reverend Norcross slowly nods his head up and down. He's been pastoring long enough to recognize the residual effects of family discord. Elias Pope was a private man, especially when it came to his family life. Perhaps the man he knew and the father Olivia knew were two different men.
"I've read all your books, Olivia," he says, moving on to neutral territory. "I want a signed copy of the new book when it's published."
"Of course," she says. "Reverend Norcross, I can't thank you enough for making all the arrangements at Boston PD and with Mrs. Shoffener."
"Nonsense. I have a few connections in the police department and City Hall I can always call on. As for Edna Shoffener, she's been a member of our church for over forty years. I've been urging her for years to rent that upstairs apartment after Junior moved out – generate some passive income."
"Junior?"
"One of Edna's sons. He's a big strapping young man. He moved out to Phoenix a few years ago. He has a good job and recently started a family. Edna is crazy about her grandchildren."
Olivia nods her head, thinking Reverend Norcross' description of Junior explains the king-sized bed in the small bedroom.
"Just let me know if you need anything else while you're in our city. You're here for nine months?"
"That's the plan. When researching a book I like to become a part of the community. As much as possible, of course."
"You'll certainly meet many members of the community here at First Corinthian." Olivia smiles politely. "Have you met with Superintendent Davis yet? We have high hopes for Edison."
"I'm meeting with Superintendent Davis next week. Superintendent Grant was my first interview. I met with him on Monday."
Reverend Norcross rolls his eyes, leans back in his chair, and grabs the lapels of his black, pin-striped suit jacket with both hands. The tone of his voice is now harsh and disapproving.
"I'll never support Superintendent Grant for anything — not even dog catcher. That man hails from a long line of racist and abusive cops. Rotten to the core. That clan of his took sadistic pleasure in bashing in the heads of Black and brown people. Grant as police commissioner would set the police department and this city back decades. I've made Mayor Keegan aware of my feelings about the man."
"Grant can be quite … stoic. He was none too happy to be interviewed."
"I'm sure he wasn't. You're not quite the right hue for him. The man acts like he's afraid to be around Black people. He never comes to community events. He sends his captains while he sits in his office doing only God knows what. We don't need an invisible police commissioner. We need someone who isn't afraid to sit down and talk with Black people about our issues."
"I've read a lot of negative press about Superintendent Grant's family's abuses while they worked for the police department. I haven't uncovered anything negative on him."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Reverend Norcross says.
"On paper, Superintendent Grant and Superintendent Davis look very similar. They joined the Academy around the same time. Both rose through the ranks and they both have been awarded similar accommodations and praise from the department."
"That's where the similarities end. Edison understands the importance of building bonds with residents, especially those who live in areas traditionally underserved and abused by police. Black Bostonians believe this is their moment. After nearly two centuries elevating exclusively white men to the role of police commissioner, I — we -- believe it's time for a Black man to run the police department."
"It sounds like Superintendent Davis is your guy."
"Edison will pick up the phone whenever I need to do a favor for a friend." Olivia slowly nods her head up and down. Reverend Norcross is a savvy operator.
"What about Superintendent Michael Shaughnessy? He's also in the running for police commissioner. We're scheduled to meet next Tuesday."
Reverend Norcross waves a hand in the air. "That man doesn't stand a chance of being appointed to anything in this city. This is a contest between Edison and Grant."
"Well, I've taken up enough of your time," Olivia says, picking up her purse from the other chair. "I didn't want another day to go by without stopping in to say hello and thank you for your support."
"Olivia, your father's record collection, I hope you kept it. That man had the largest private collection of vinyl I've ever seen."
"I did keep it," she says, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Talking about her father always arouses unpleasant memories.
"That man turned me on to the most mind-blowing music — of all genres —from all eras. Elias was passionate about his music as he was about serving the Lord."
"He certainly was," Olivia says, standing and walking across the office to the door. Reverend Norcross stands from behind the desk and follows her.
"Olivia, how is Marguerite? How is your mother doing?"
"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her since I was thirteen. Take care, Reverend Norcross."
"I'll see you here for Sunday service soon," the reverend says, but Olivia has is already walking down the hall toward the exit.
XXX
The house now is quiet after a long day of activities which started with attending 7:00 a.m. Mass, followed by lunch at the house with Karen's boyfriend Connor, who he isn't sure if he likes, then spending hours in the basement repairing a water pipe that decided today was a good day to burst. There is always something that needs to be fixed in an old house.
Unwinding with a hefty pour of the outrageously expensive peaty single malt scotch that Frank gifted him for his birthday, Fitz sits on the sofa in the dimly lit living room reflecting on the homily Father Brennan delivered on self-sacrifice. He became increasingly agitated as Father Brennan talked about daily self-sacrifice, in imitation of Christ, being the key to the Christian life. That sacrifice and renunciation belong to the just life.
Aren't I a Christian? Haven't I sacrificed enough? What other pieces of myself must I relinquish?
Repressed emotions have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them. Once triggered, they must be processed for healing to occur. Fitz rubs his forehead with his thumb and index finger as he stares across the room, out the window, and into the night.
Langston Hughes was right, sacrificing personal dreams only lead to a life of unhappiness.
XXX
Dressed in her favorite pink pajamas, short pink robe, and pink fluffy slippers, Karen looks like a cloud of pink cotton candy as she stands in the hallway watching her father. He has a far-off look in his eyes. He did not hear her step onto the creaky floorboard that's supposed to alert him if she or Jerry tried to sneak out the house at night.
"Dad?" she says in a small voice, not wanting to startle him. He twists his neck. A look of surprise fills his watery eyes.
"What are you doing up?" he says in a raspy voice. Karen crawls on the sofa and cuddles close to him. He clears his throat and drapes his arm around her shoulders.
"Thanks for convincing Mom to let Connor come over for lunch today. If she had her way, I would never have a boyfriend."
"Your mother just wants the best for you — as do I. You are being smart with Connor?" he says, giving her a questioning and warning stare.
"If you're asking if Connor and I are having sex, the answer is no. We haven't had sex — yet." His eyebrows raise in surprise.
"I'm kidding, Dad. You don't have anything to worry about."
"Good," he says, stretching his arm to set the glass on the coffee table.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Are you and Mom going to divorce?"
He looks down at her with a befuddled expression on his face. "Why would you ask that?"
"You and Mom hardly ever talk to each other. You don't even seem comfortable being in the same room at times. Cindy's parents got divorced last year. Her father had to move out of the house. He now lives in a tiny apartment in a scary neighborhood near Dorchester. Cindy has to go there every other weekend. Court ordered. She hates going there. She hates sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag."
"Your mother and I aren't getting divorced," he says, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
"You hardly ever smile anymore. You never look happy," Karen says, staring up at her father's face with concern in her eyes. She worries about her father, more than any child should worry about their parents.
"I just have a lot on my mind lately. So much is going on at headquarters," he says, giving his usual response to explain his morose demeanor lately. Work is always a credible scapegoat.
"I'm glad you and Mom aren't divorcing," Karen says with relief in her voice. "I don't want to sleep on the floor."
"You need to get to bed. You have school tomorrow," he says, kissing the top of her head.
"Goodnight, Dad. I love you," Karen says, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"I love you, too, sweetheart."
Fitz bends forward, reaches for the glass on the coffee table, and sips. It's pointless to cogitate the unrealized dreams of his younger self. He has a family and other responsibilities he needs to think about. Let the past remain in the past. He tosses back the last of the scotch, tucks the feelings of anger, resentment, loneliness, and emptiness back into their secret place, then heads upstairs to bed.
XXX
The next morning when Fitz enters the kitchen, his fake face is beaming brightly. He greets his children with a kiss, then walks over to the counter where his wife is packing her lunch bag. He places a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. Sitting in the chair hugging her knees with one hand and holding her phone with the other hand, Karen smiles at what she believes is affection. She's young, almost sixteen, and doesn't understand that her father has mastered the art of pretending to be happy.
"Do you want breakfast this morning?" Mellie asks as Fitz fills his mug with piping hot coffee.
"Yes. Thank you," he says, spooning sugar into the mug. His bliss point is five teaspoons.
He sits down at the table between his daughter and son. He brushes Karen's bang to the side, away from her eyes. They exchange smiles like two people who share an inside secret.
"How are my two favorite children doing this morning?" he says, his new demeanor filling the small kitchen.
"We're your only children," Jerry replies as he reviews the notes for his biology test later in the morning at school.
"Dad, I need a new phone," Karen says, still staring at her phone screen.
"What's wrong with your phone? It's only a year old."
"It's outdated."
"No, it's not," Jerry interjects, taking a moment away from his notes to educate his father. "She just wants the latest color. The new phone doesn't have any new features."
"Shut up, nerd," Karen says. "Please, Dad. This phone is so slow."
"Jerry has a game on Tuesday. Will you be there this time?" Mellie says, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table in front of her husband. Jerry eagerly looks at his father and Karen dramatically drops her head on the table. She hates going to her brother's baseball games.
"I'll be there. How about we grab something to eat after the game?"
"Yes!" Jerry says excitedly. "Can we go to DiMaggio's, Mom?" Jerry asks, looking over at his mother with eyes the size of baseballs.
"Ask your father," Mellie says as Fitz shovels another forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
"Dad, can we go to DiMaggio's after the game?" Jerry pleads.
"We only go to DiMaggio's for special occasions. There's nothing special about your stupid baseball game. You probably won't even play. Bench warmer," Karen says cruelly, tossing her phone onto the table.
"Don't be rude to your brother," Fitz says sternly, his face hard with disapproval. "Of course, we can go to DiMaggio's," tousling his son's hair. Jerry's face lights up. Everyone knows Karen is his father's favorite child, but he likes it when his father shows him attention, too. "How about I take you two to school this morning so mom can get to the Center on time today?"
Mellie's head snaps around. She stares at her husband with furrowed brow. He hardly ever has time to take the kids to school. He must have gotten over his self-pity.
"Cool," Karen says gleefully.
"Can Ferguson turn on the siren and flashing lights? The kids will think it's cool," Jerry says, already gathering up his tablet from the table.
"No, but I can let you change the scanner," Fitz says, standing and taking his plate over to the sink. Mellie turns on the faucet to wash the plate. "Mel, I'm going to need my dress uniform for a meeting next week. Can you make sure it's dry-cleaned?"
"I'll drop it off at the cleaners on the way to the shelter," she says, setting the plate on the dish rack.
"Let's go, kids," Fitz says.
Karen and Jerry make a mad dash toward the front door and Fitz places another chaste kiss on his wife's cheek before leaving the kitchen.
XXX
Jerry Grant is more like his mother than his father, quiet yet forceful when necessary. He likes all things related to science and math and he loves baseball. He can cite statistics for the Boston Red Sox baseball team going back to 1901 when the team was founded and called the Boston Americans. On the baseball field, he is in his world. He is no longer reserved or anxious. It's just him and the pitcher. The crack of his bat and the roar of the crowd are like music to his ears.
Table littered with paper from opened straws, soiled napkins, and half-eaten small plates of appetizers, the Grants sit at the large leather upholstered booth which is reserved for Frank, the owner of DiMaggio's. Tonight has turned into a special occasion.
"You did a great job out there today, Jer. You won the game for the team. I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Dad," Jerry says, still dressed in his baseball uniform that's covered with dirt from him sliding to home base. "Mom, can we have tiramisu for dessert?" Jerry asks with eager eyes.
"The champ can have whatever he wants," Mellie says, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand.
"Dad, may I have a new phone? Please," Karen whines, displaying her best puppy dog face.
"Karen, please. We are not discussing your wants tonight. Be considerate of your brother for once," Mellie says. Karen folds her arms across her chest and pokes out her bottom lip.
"Fitz! Mellie!"
Mike Shaughnessy's unmistakable booming voice fills the restaurant as he walks toward their table. Mike is an imposing figure, standing about six feet-four-inches tall and weighing about 275 pounds. Although he is a massive man, everyone knows he has the heart of a teddy bear.
Fitz stands to shake his co-worker's hand. His eyes dart from Mike to Dr. Pope who is dwarfed by Mike's large frame. He smiles inwardly at the messenger bag strapped across her chest.
"Hey, Mike," Fitz says, shaking the man's oversized hand. "Good evening, Dr. Pope," he says with a nod.
Mellie's head pops up from the menu when she hears the name. She carefully assesses the woman thinking she isn't what she imagined. A high forehead that peeks through her side bang. Large brown eyes. Full lips stained with nude lipstick. There is a quiet beauty about her.
"Hello, Superintendent Grant," Olivia says, clutching the tote bag with both hands in front of her.
"Dr. Pope, this is my wife Mellie, my son Jerry, and my daughter Karen."
"Hello, Dr. Pope," Mellie says with a look of surprise in her eyes.
"Hello, Mrs. Grant," Olivia replies politely. She flashes a smile at the two wide-eyed teenagers.
"Hey, kids," Mike says, feeling the need to acknowledge the children.
"Hello, Mr. Shaughnessy," Karen and Jerry say at once in their most angelic voices.
"It looks like somebody had a baseball game," Mike says, staring down at Jerry.
"Jerry hit the game-winning home run tonight," Fitz says and Jerry beams with pride.
"Wow. Congratulations, sport," Mike says, patting Jerry on the shoulder.
"You're really pretty," Karen says, staring directly at Olivia. Olivia smiles politely at the young girl who looks like her father. Jerry looks like his mother.
"Well, we better get to our table," Mike says. "I'll see you at headquarters tomorrow, Fitz."
"Tell Patti I'll see her at Matty's next month," Mellie says, watching Mike place a hand on Dr. Pope's lower back and steer her across the dining room to their table. "You didn't tell me that Dr. Pope was so attractive … and Black," Mellie adds in a lowered voice.
"Mom, please. Does everything have to be about race in this family?" Karen snarls. Mellie stares at her daughter with wide eyes, feigning ignorance.
"She looks like a girl at school," Jerry says shyly. "Her name is Stephanie. We have biology and calculus together. She's really smart."
"Somebody has a girlfriend," Karen teases her brother in a singsong voice.
"She's not my girlfriend," Jerry shoots back, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"You wish she was your girlfriend. Here, call your girlfriend with my old phone," Karen continues, playfully pushing her phone across the table toward her brother.
"Shut your fat face," Jerry yells. Mellie stares at her son with surprise in her eyes. She had no idea her bashful son liked a girl at school.
"Okay, that's enough," Fitz says firmly, his eyes glaring at his daughter. Karen drops her head and stares down at the table. Even the favorite child needs to be reprimanded at times.
Fitz places a comforting arm around Jerry's shoulders and moves close to the boy's florid face. "You can like whoever you want. Okay?" Jerry nods his head and smiles at his father. "Now, let's order that tiramisu."
XXX
Olivia glances around the quaint dining room admiring the decor which gives the restaurant its Old-World charm. She hopes the food is as good as the online reviews say it is. She's been dying for authentic Italian food since she arrived in Boston.
"This is such a lovely restaurant. It reminds me of the one's in Italy."
"You've traveled to Italy?" Mike asks with interest.
"I was in the Study Abroad Program while in college. I spent an academic year in Rome. I also gained too many pounds while living there," she says, smiling reminiscently.
"The expression on your face says you really enjoyed yourself. Have you been back?"
"Just once," she says, thinking about her trip back to Sutri, a small town outside of Rome, where her Italian boyfriend, Enzo, lived.
"Maybe one day you'll give me tips on where to go. My wife and I have been talking about traveling to Italy."
"Of course," she says, assessing the metals pinned to Mike's white shirt. Some are the same as Superintendent Grant's; others are different.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet me here tonight. Work is incredibly hectic. Being out for two weeks on vacation … I have a lot of catching up to do."
"How was your vacation?"
"Terrific. Long overdue. My wife and I took the kids to Punta Cana."
"Nice," Olivia says. "So, what's keeping you so busy at BPD.'
"The rising crime and gun violence. The mayor is running for re-election. He wants the crime numbers down long before voters step into the voting booth."
"That kind of change doesn't happen overnight."
"Tell the mayor that," Mike says with a hint of fatigue in his voice.
"Hey, Mike. Can I get you two something to drink?" the server who seems to have appeared out of nowhere asks. Mike nods his head toward Olivia.
"I'll have an iced tea," she says to the server.
"Iced tea? Dorothy, give the lady something a little stronger than tea."
"Iced tea is fine," Olivia says to the server with a slight smile.
"All right. I'll have a lager. On tap. Thanks, Dorothy."
"Coming right up," Dorothy says as she walks away from the table.
"So, how are the interviews going?"
"You're only my second."
"I heard you interviewed Fitz."
"I did," she says, thinking word of her work has started to spread around the department. "I met with Superintendent Grant my first week in Boston."
"So, what do you think of him?"
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone knows Fitz can be a wee bit uptight. We call him the Ice Man. Never shows any feelings."
"We didn't discuss his feelings. Besides, I'm not in Boston to judge anyone. Not even you, Superintendent Shaughnessy."
"Call me Mike."
"Okay, Mike. Tell me, why do you want to be Boston's next police commissioner?"
"May I call you Olivia?" She nods while sliding the notepad and ink pen from the tote bag. It's too noisy in the restaurant to ask if she could use her recorder. "Olivia, I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of becoming police commissioner of this city, now, or any other time."
Olivia waits for him to continue.
"I'm sure you may have heard why."
"I've read the police and media reports." Mike nods his head.
"With everything that's happening in this city, the mayor didn't want the competition to be between a white guy and a Black guy. So, they threw me in for optics."
Olivia chuckles. "Boston's logic confounds me. Two white guys competing against one Black man for one of the mayor's most important appointments is a better look?"
"Apparently so. One night changed everything for me — career-wise that is."
"The night you encountered the jogger?" Mike nods his head again, wondering what's taking Dorothy so long to bring his beer. "Tell me what happened that night, Mike."
"There had been a few break-ins in my neighborhood over a three-month period. We didn't have a clue who was doing it. We didn't know if it was a gang or one person. The night of the incident… I'm never home that time of night ..." He shakes his head from side to side as if he still can't belief what happened.
"We just finished our dinner. Patti, my wife, and I were cleaning the kitchen — putting away leftovers and washing the dishes. Patti still likes doing the dishes by hand. I don't know why we have that fancy dishwasher," he chuckles nervously.
Olivia studies Mike's face thinking it's still painful for him to re-live that night.
"Anyway, the kids were in their bedrooms doing whatever teenagers do — "
"Your drinks," Dorothy says, setting Olivia's iced tea and straw on the table in front of her. She sets the tall glass of beer in front of Mike.
"Thank you, Dorothy," he says.
"Would you like to order appetizers or just entrees?"
"Olivia?" Mike says, checking if she wants an appetizer.
"No appetizer for me. But feel free to order one if you like."
"Nothing for me either, Dorothy."
"Ok. What can I get for your entrée, ma'am?" Dorothy says her pencil hovering over the order pad.
"I'll have the risotto," Olivia says.
"Excellent choice. It's loaded with chunks of lobster." Dorothy scribbles on the paper. "What are you having, Mike?"
"I'll have the fettuccine. Tell Frank I want extra crab meat," he chuckles.
"Frank isn't here tonight. I'll be back shortly with your entrees," Dorothy says before hurrying off toward the kitchen.
"Cheers," Mike says, clinking his glass against Olivia's glass.
"Cheers."
Mike quickly brings the tall glass to his lips. He takes a long swallow, wipes the foam from his top lip with the white cloth napkin, then sets the glass back on the table. He sits back in the chair and resumes recounting the events of that fateful night.
"I heard gunshots — not far from my home — so I grabbed my gun from the hall closet."
"A shotgun," Olivia clarifies. She has read everything she could get her hands on about Superintendent Shaughnessy. Mike wraps a beefy hand around the sweating glass and slowly nods his head up and down.
"When I got outside, I saw someone running from the area. I didn't know if the person was male, female, Black or white. They were dressed in dark clothing and wearing a ski mask. The kind that covers the whole face."
"Balaclava," Olivia says.
"Yeah," Mike says, pausing to take another sip. "I called the police as I pursued the person in my truck. When I got closer, I could tell the person was a man."
"A Black man," Olivia says.
"Yes. I confronted him. I identified myself as a police officer."
"Did you have any reason to believe this person did anything wrong?" Mike's face turns an odd shade of red.
"I heard gun shots and I saw someone running from the scene," he says in a defensive tone.
"The police report says the responding officer searched the man, Harrison Cooper, and found that he was unarmed. Mr. Cooper was just out jogging. Something he does every night at the same time. Neighbors corroborated his story."
"I swear, I didn't know he was Black. I stayed in my truck and never came in physical contact with him. I had my shotgun, but I never pointed it at him. There wasn't even a round chambered."
Olivia stares at him without judgment.
"That night ruined my career, Olivia," Mike says solemnly as he stares down into the beer glass.
"Mr. Cooper could have lost his life that night, Mike."
"Thank God things didn't go that way. I couldn't live with that. Short-circuiting my career is one thing, killing an innocent man, that's a different story."
"Your entrées," Dorothy says, balancing the plates on her arm the way Frank's mother trained her twenty-five years ago when she started working at the restaurant. Dorothy is the oldest server at DiMaggio's and can run circles around all the younger generations of servers.
She sets the steaming bowl of risotto in front of Olivia and the large plate of fettuccine in front of Mike. He is ready to dive into the mountain of pasta and seafood.
"Wow. The portions here are huge," Olivia says, salivating with anticipation.
"The food is really good. That's why this place is so popular. Right, Dorothy?"
"You better believe it. Can I get you another iced tea, ma'am?" Dorothy says, smiling in Olivia's direction.
"Yes. I'll need it to wash down all this food."
"Another beer, Mike?"
"Do you need to ask?" he chuckles, raising his glass in the air.
"She knows you well," Olivia says, bringing a forkful of rice and lobster to her mouth. The reviewers were right. The risotto is excellent. "This. Is. Wonderful."
"I'm glad you like it. A lot of the guys from BPD come here. Mostly for lunch," Mike says, twirling the pasta on the fork. "I'm okay knowing I've hit the ceiling at BPD. I've made my peace with it. Let Fitz and Davis battle it out."
"Mike, does BPD have a race problem?"
Holding the fork dripping with pasta in midair, Mike stares at Olivia for a long while, as if he is trying to figure out how to answer her question. "Olivia, Boston has a race problem, therefore, the police department has a race problem."
XXX
Mellie exits the bathroom, sits on her side of the bed, and unscrews the lid from the jar of hand cream. She has used the same brand since she was a teenager. Ana introduced it to her the year they met at summer camp. They were both camp counselors, working for the Catholic Youth Summer Program.
"It was nice having dinner out as a family," she says. "It's been a while. Jerry was so excited he won the game."
"He had two well-deserved servings of tiramisu," Fitz says, not looking up from the tablet screen.
"I imagined Dr. Pope to be a much older woman. Someone who wears support hosiery," Mellie chuckles softly. Fitz remains silent and focused on the screen. "Mike better be careful," her voice is singsong.
"What do you mean?" he says, turning his head to look at his wife.
"Having dinner with such an attractive woman who isn't his wife is not a good look. People will talk."
"It's just an interview, Mel. We all have to do them. Don't make it sound dirty." Mellie rolls her eyes.
"Jerry seems to be smitten with a girl at school. I had no idea. He's so quiet."
"Mhm," Fitz mumbles. He's decided to order Karen a new phone in her favorite color.
"I'm glad he's coming out of his shell. But …"
"But what?" Fitz says, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand. He slides out a credit card.
"What are you ordering?" Mellie asks, looking over at him with furrowed brow.
"A new phone for Karen."
"She doesn't need a new phone, Fitz. The one she has is perfectly fine. You spoil her."
"What's the point in having money if we can't buy the things we want." The innuendo is not lost on her.
"I don't want Jerry getting his hopes up about something that will never work."
"What do you mean?" Fitz says, looking over at his wife again.
"Come on, Fitz. You of all people know better. Jerry dating a Black girl? That certainly won't go over well in this family. He needs to set his sights on someone … more appropriate."
"Jerry should choose someone he likes and who likes him."
"Well, you can say the politically correct thing behind these doors, but you know our families — our friends. They'll never accept it. You know how narrow-minded they can be about things like that."
"They don't have to accept it. It's his life — no one else's." His firm tone says the conversation is over. He tosses the wallet and tablet onto the nightstand and turns off his lamp.
Mellie's face is flush and her cheeks burn. She stares at his back thinking she is tired of his air of moral superiority. She is tired of him acting like he's been done wrong. She is tired of him acting like he's the only one who has sacrificed who they are to be in the marriage.
